


i'll wait til it's my turn

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: five things Serena does on her sabbatical, and one thing she does when she comes home.





	

**one.**

Serena does end up going to a vineyard in the south of France, not to grow grapes - sounds like far too much work, if she’s honest. But to drink wine, out of doors, the sun shining on her face, that seems like heaven. She does a whole wine tour, visits the big fancy wineries with their steel equipment and formalized tours. It’s always more expensive that way, and sometimes she gets far less wine out of the exchange. They put out spit buckets, too, and that’s something Serena could never abide.

She also visits the small wineries, the ones that are out of the way, with only a small crop of very specialized grapes, or the ones that have been owned by the same family for years and years and years. There, she pets the family dog, meets every aunt and uncle and niece and nephew, and they all tell her their favorites and bring her in for dinner or lunch, invite her to come back the next day.

Those are the ones she prefers, some semblance of community, of home, while she’s away and alone. Those are the nights when she calls Bernie, missing her terribly. Bernie always answers, even if she’s been sleeping, her voice husky and deeper than normal. They don’t talk about anything specific, not really. Jason sometimes spends the weekends with Bernie, says he misses the house, that he worries about her getting lonely. He calls her once a week, their standing appointment the thing she never misses, no matter how much wine she’s had.

She wonders if she’s self-medicating, drinking all this wine so she doesn’t have to confront anything but her slightly red-stained teeth every night when she looks at her reflection in the mirror. She knows herself fairly well, knows that even wine can’t mask the pain she’s in, so she thinks maybe she’s doing this because Bernie suggested it, sort of, and it’s a way to keep her involved until she finds whatever it is she’s looking for.

So she becomes an expert on Shiraz, as if she wasn’t already. She drinks the country wine made using dureza grapes, sort of a stealthy, under the table wine that isn’t really allowed, not in the big wineries, not in the markets and groceries. She has wine made with Mondeuse blanche, doesn’t care for it as much - it’s a white grape, after all. Those plantations are harder to find, hidden around the Savoie.

She thinks of herself as the Indiana Jones of wine, an archeologist of Shiraz, excavating all the things that makes it what it is. She thinks about traveling to Australia, to Crete, to all the places where they grow the Syrah grapes, her own quest with only clinking bottles full of red wine as a reward.

Bernie reminds her that going to Australia is akin to being trapped on an airplane for a day and Serena rethinks that idea, preferring cars, trains (despite their unreliability), even boats. She looks online to see if there are still boats chartered from Europe to Australia, but can’t imagine being on a boat for forty days (she thinks Jason would like that, if only to talk about the story of Noah and the ark), and paying four thousand quid to do so.

So she stays in the south of France, perfecting her French, traveling from inn to inn, treating herself just once to an opulent hotel room with a large bed and fluffy duvet, a large tub with jets. She bathes in the water, a glassful of wine perched on the edge. She thinks she could get used to this, but then remembers what’s waiting for her back home. Doesn’t want to get used to this without Bernie at her side.

She puts on the robe provided, takes her wine with her and climbs under the covers, pulls out her phone and calls Bernie.

“‘Lo,” Bernie says, sleep evident in her voice and Serena feels badly for waking her, wonders how long of a day she’s had. They don’t talk about the hospital, or how AAU is doing, or what Jasmine is up to, or anything like that. Bernie because she’s scared to venture into that territory, Serena because she’s not sure if she wants to hear that it’s failing without her or if she wants everything to be running smoothly.

“Hello, you,” Serena says, her voice warm with wine, smooth and rich and dark. “Just wanted to hear your voice before I went to sleep.”

“Everything all right?” Bernie asks and Serena can hear the rustle of sheets through the phone, imagines Bernie moving onto her back, one hand brushing that tangle of hair back, the other holding her phone to her cheek.

“Everything is all right,” she answers. “I’ll let you get back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bernie says automatically. “Sleep well.”

They haven’t said ‘I love you,’ not since Bernie said it for the first time in the bathroom on AAU, a punch to Serena’s gut, because she realized then that Bernie’s love couldn’t fix everything. Serena makes a wordless hum, stops herself from saying “I miss you,” and just says “good night,” then hangs up the phone.

 

**two.**

One thing Serena initiates, when she’s moved on from wines and vineyards and France, is trying to regain some intimacy with Bernie. She calls her one evening when she knows Bernie has the morning off the following day, because Bernie’d mentioned something about sleeping in for once.

Bernie answers on the second ring, a little breathless and Serena wonders where she was running from. “Now a good time?” she asks, because she doesn’t want to be an interruption in Bernie’s life, not anymore. Doesn’t want to be one more thing Bernie has to worry about, even though she knows Bernie will worry anyway.

“Perfect,” Bernie says, and then Serena is at a loss for words, because she isn’t really sure how to start what she has in mind. “What’s going on?” Bernie asks, when Serena’s been silent for too long.

“I was just thinking about you,” Serena says, because it’s true, but doesn’t know how to add that she’s been thinking about Bernie while her hand has been inside her knickers, covered in sticky wetness while she moans and bites her lip. “I was thinking about the way you kiss.” She feels brave, wonders if Bernie will get the idea. Thinks Bernie must have some practice with this, being away from her husband for so long.

“Oh?” Bernie asks and then Serena knows Bernie isn’t going to make this easy for her. “How do I kiss?” Serena can imagine the look on Bernie’s face, that innocence, that guileless look that she wears so well. That Serena, frankly, loves.

“Like you never want to stop tasting me.” Serena is blushing furiously, alone in her room. She isn’t good at this, she’s had no experience. “When you slide your tongue into my mouth, it’s like...it’s like…” She trails off because she doesn’t know how to say what it’s like. It’s warm, it’s wet, it’s like a taste of what Bernie will do later, with her tongue somewhere else. It’s Bernie, in her mouth, invading it, a welcome intrusion.

“Maybe you like it better when my tongue is doing other things, hmm?” Bernie has laughter in her voice and Serena can’t fault her for that, this all feels silly and ridiculous, but she wants Bernie to know that she’s still wanted, desired. “If I were to lick down your neck, down your chest, if I were to suck you into my mouth.” Bernie is surprisingly verbose in this, and Serena wonders if it’s just because Bernie is trying very hard, for her.

Serena slides a hand into her knickers, already wet, just at the sound of Bernie’s low voice, it curls around her like a hug, nestles in the pit of her stomach, making a flock of butterflies as she tells Serena just what she would do if they were together. Serena’s breath is coming in pants, loud enough that she almost misses the fact that Bernie is panting too.

“Where’s your hand, Bernie?” Serena asks, aware it’s a slight break in the mood, but wants to hear Bernie say it, wants to have that image in her head.

“You know where it is, Serena. Same place as yours. I’m on your couch in your sitting room, trousers at my ankles, thinking of you.” It’s quite a picture she paints, and Serena can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye. Thinks she will never be able to look at that couch again, when she gets home. Whenever that is.

“Not exactly the same place as mine,” Serena answers archly, her eyebrow raised, because it’s a habit she can’t help, even when there’s no one to see. She twists her fingers as Bernie laughs, a throaty chuckle.

“No, not _exactly_.” There’s an intimacy in this, even if Serena hasn’t gone over the edge yet, this sharing a private moment together. It’s been so long since they had this, since Bernie felt comfortable enough with her to do anything like this. Serena feels like she’s regaining a piece of herself.

And then Bernie proceeds to elucidate exactly what it is her tongue would do to Serena, how her thumb would be put to work, how Serena would pull at her hair, how she misses the sound Serena makes when she comes, and it’s then that Serena moans, lets go, feels the wetness slide from her, coating her hand. She licks a finger, thinking of Bernie, then says that aloud and Bernie moans in response. She does her best to return the favor, thinks Bernie is doing a lot of the heavy-lifting, still loves hearing the quick pants, the grunts, then the silence that lets her know that Bernie Wolfe is orgasming on her couch.

“We should...do that again,” Bernie says after a bit, hesitant to put any kind of strictures on Serena.

“We should,” Serena agrees.

 

**three.**

Serena makes herself take time away from calling Bernie, the only contact she has with home her weekly call with Jason. She makes herself imagine her life completely alone. She makes herself learn to be okay with that.

It isn’t easy. She goes a whole day without saying a word to another person and feels antsy and like she wants to crawl out of her own skin. She’s not an introvert by nature, likes talking to people, _likes_ hearing what other people have to say, even if it’s idiotic. She thinks she doesn’t have to learn how to be a silent monk just to learn how to be alone.

She eats alone at restaurants, sitting outside when the weather permits, watching the world go by. She has a glass of wine with a cheese platter, counts the number of people walking dogs. She sips a whisky with some sort of salty, fried concoction and plays a round of darts in a darkened tavern. When someone asks to join in, she lets him, loses to him terribly, thanks him for the game and leaves.

She writes in a journal, makes note of her days, how well she sleeps. She writes memories of Adrienne, of Elinor. She feels a lump in her throat when she thinks that she’s the last person to truly have memories with her mother, that when she’s gone, those stories will be gone too. She confronts life’s impermanence, and decides to shelve those feelings until she’s ready for another day.

Elinor’s last article she keeps folded in her diary, a tear starting along the crease from all the times Serena folds and unfolds it, stares at what are essentially Elinor’s last words in stark black and white. She wants to remind herself of Elinor’s good opinion of her, how brave she thought Serena was. Wants to be the person Elinor thought she was.

She takes long walks, with no destination in mind. It’s not the crazy, frenetic walking of those early days when she was still awash in grief. It’s a meandering, leisurely stroll that gives her time and space to reflect, nothing containing her. Once, when she finds herself in an empty park in the early morning, far from houses or people or anything, she lets out a loud yell, to see if that helps her release any of her pent-up feelings. All it really does is disturb some pigeons, but she feels a little better for it anyway.

She goes to the cinema alone, feels no shame in ordering a large drink and bag of popcorn just for herself. Plops herself solidly in the middle of the theatre, enjoys the previews and the opening credits, lets herself laugh loudly at the jokes, regardless of the stares of people around her. She stays all the way until the music stops playing and the lights come back on. She smiles at the employee with the broom and the trash can as she drops her garbage in the bag.

She gets hit on, in bars. By men and women. She wonders if a switch has been flipped, somehow telegraphing her relatively newfound interest in both genders. She declines drinks and invitations, because the point is to be alone. And besides, Bernie is waiting for her, waiting on the promise of hope, as tenuous as it may feel some days.

When she hasn’t talked to Bernie for a month, Serena finally gives in, finally calls her. It goes to Bernie’s voicemail and Serena takes what little pleasure she can from the sound of Bernie’s voice on the answering machine. “It’s me,” she says, and doesn’t really have anything planned beyond that. “I miss you.” It’s the first time she’s said it, since she’s left. “Call me. When you can.”

 

**four.**

Harvard University is doing some sort of guest lecture series. Serena applies to be a speaker at one of the sessions, highlights her experience with both an MBA and an MD. Her application is accepted, her flights to America booked, her housing arranged. She hasn’t been back to Boston in many years, can’t even begin to think how much has changed.

But the stone buildings are all the same, looming and so very academic. She takes a picture and sends it to Jason, who reminds her of the time difference, and then says it looks like she’s at Hogwarts. She writes back just a smiley face and a promise to remember that she’s now five hours behind his schedule.

She has notes prepared, makes Bernie listen to her rehearse as she paces her hotel room. Bernie has no criticisms, not even when Serena tries to make her laugh by asking if it’s “Nurembergy” at all. “It’s good, Serena,” she says. “They’ll love you.” Serena wonders if Bernie’s worried that this visit to Harvard will turn into something permanent.

“Well, I plan to work in some remarks about universal healthcare and women’s choice that might get me put on some sort of watchlist,” Serena says as a way to assuage those particular fears. She has no desire to live in the United States, no desire to pick up her entire life and start over in this place.

Bernie lets her run through the speech once more, but falls asleep before the end. Serena tries not to be offended, reminds herself it’s two in the morning back home, and if any students fall asleep, it’s just the nature of being in college. She hangs up the phone after listening to Bernie’s gentle, slow breathing for a moment. Likes the image of Bernie’s peaceful face, jaw slack, the only light in the room from the phone, casting shadows on her cheeks.

Her talk ends up going well. She talks about the nitty gritty of hospital life, the things that students don’t think about it at the onset - dealing with trustees and boards and budgets. She talks about the good stuff, too, exciting and groundbreaking surgeries, running a ward, being a woman rising through the ranks, how to make space for yourself. She sees a few of the girls in the audience perk up, interested. She makes a note of them, hopes they’ll come up and talk to her afterwards.

Someone asks what her biggest regret is, in medicine, and Serena has to stop, take a breath, it feels like she’s been punched in stomach. “Taking advantage of my colleagues,” she says finally. She doesn’t know how else to say it, doesn’t want to go in detail about the painful time she’s left behind. “Demanding a level of perfection that was dangerous, working them all too hard, having exacting standards that were never meant to be met. Abusing their loyalty and trust in me.” That’ll be hard to win back, she thinks. That will be the hardest thing of all.

“Sorry that's probably not the answer you were looking for. I could also talk about making a wrong call in a diagnosis and having a patient bleed out because of it, but that’s rather maudlin, too. In summary, treat everyone well, do your best, and have lots of nice wine at home. That’s a good takeaway message, isn’t it?” She gets the laugh she was hoping for, followed by applause, which she graciously waves off.

She does get a few visitors, while she’s organizing her papers, putting them back in her folder. Two young women stop up to thank her for her words, one with bright red hair so like Elinor’s that Serena feels the prick of tears in her eyes. Another girl stops up, she seems a little hesitant, but then is bold in her question. “You’re on leave for a bit, aren’t you?” she asks, “I saw an article about your daughter - I did research when I saw your name on the list of speakers. I’m so sorry.” Serena recognizes herself in this girl, the overachiever, always prepared, on any topic. “That’s what you were talking about, with your regret, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Serena says, because there’s no point in lying. “I handled her death poorly.” She’s willing to say those words, now. To accept them. Not that she ever told herself differently. She’s starting to recognize herself again, though, and saying the words doesn’t seem like a weapon anymore, an excuse. “Distance is a hard thing to maintain, in a hospital. I don’t even know that I recommend it. But sometimes it’s necessary.”

And that’s true. She’s needed this time, this space. She hasn’t had enough of it, just five grueling years full of heartache and pain, and this has been a long time coming. The distance is what has helped her heal.

 

**five.**

She ends up staying at Harvard for longer than anticipated, some of her old schoolmates still in the area. One is even teaching basic anatomy courses, and offers her a chance to be a visiting lecturer for a bit, arranges a stipend for her, gets her faculty housing. She likes it, teaching, she really does. Thinks she lost that for a bit, in the midst of it all.

She likes the young, eager minds, ready to prove themselves, ready to learn. She doesn’t always follow the syllabus, going off on tangents about the unique ways a mitral valve can behave, or how to spot the signs of rupture, things they won’t study until later, when they have plastic dummies or cadavers. But the students like her, like her humor, her accent, her flair. They come to her office hours, not just for advice but to just listen to her stories.

She does have quite a lot of them.  She tells them about the pipe stuck up a man’s behind, about arm wrestling to see who got the honor of pulling it out. She likes to make the work seem fun, but never hides the fact that it’s hard, too.

She tells stories of her coworkers, of sitting on the floor with Raf late one night, when they were both off shift, drinking wine in her office. It’s important to have those people in your life, that’s the lesson she wants to drive home. She’s learned to be alone, but she knows that’s not what’s best, not for her.

She gets asked to stay longer, another semester, and Serena thinks about it, thinks about a long Boston winter, about months stretching before her without going home. There’s something slightly comforting about that idea. She thinks about having a proper classroom of her own, having a little more autonomy. There’s something appealing about that too.

Teaching is what she loves. It felt like a punishment, in Holby, because she also loves surgery and operating and everything. She loves medicine, when it comes down to it, loves the work, even on the bad days. She thinks she’s ready to teach at Holby again, eager F1s and F2s alike, finds herself thinking of it fondly, without a pang of sadness. Thinks she can balance the mentoring with the things she wants to do, think she’ll never again be the cruel taskmaster who berates even the most promising student. She thinks of Morven and Jasmine and Cameron and all the med students who will come through those doors, and thinks that she wants to be a part of their lives.

She turns down the offer, thinks she’s ready to go home. She knows what makes her happy, now, knows what to do. She calls Bernie, tells her that she’ll be back in a week or so, and flushes with pleasure at the happiness in Bernie’s voice at the news.

 

**plus.**

Jason and Bernie pick her up at the airport, loitering in the baggage claim. Jason gives her a hug, says that she’ll probably stay up quite late, since she’s still on Eastern Standard Time. Serena laughs, says she’s been up for a while in the hopes that she won’t suffer jetlag too badly.

Bernie hugs her, deep and long and hard, and doesn’t let go for a while. Serena nuzzles into her neck, feels a little wetness against her cheek. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m back. I’m back.” Bernie nods, sniffles, lets go, and Serena’s eyes feel a little wet too.

“It’s fish and chips night,” Jason says, because he’s having dinner with them, is spending the night at Serena’s house, all three of them under the same roof. Bernie arranged it ahead of time, tells Serena it wasn’t hard to convince him at all.

“I remember,” she says fondly. “I’ve been dying for a good battered cod. It’s been ages.” It’s true, even the faux-British bars in the United States can’t match a good solid English fish and chips.

The drive home is quiet, just Jason fiddling with the radio. Serena’s in the backseat of her own car, more spacious than Bernie’s, more room for her luggage. She watches Bernie driving, so strong and silent and feels her heart bursting with love. They stop off for fish and chips, Bernie needing no prompting to know where to go, and Serena thinks she and Jason must have figured out a way of existing without her. It makes her feel all bittersweet and sad, because it’s what they should’ve done, but she still feels as if the hole she left behind has been patched over.

They eat dinner, Jason filling in Serena on all the things that have happened since their last phone conversation. He tells her about the World’s Strongest Man, how Bernie is getting quite good at Countdown, but he still wins the majority of the time. Serena wonders how much time he spends over here, is glad they had each other while she was away, hopes she can prove to him that she’s worth his time again. She’s still not the same Auntie Serena that he first met, but she’s better for the difference

Later, they’re in bed, Serena nestled next to Bernie, listening to her heartbeat. “It’s good to be home,” she says, even though what she means is “I missed you, I love you, I’ll try not to leave again.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Bernie answers, and Serena thinks she means, “I love you, please stay,” can only hope she earns the right to hear those words again. “You’ll have to sort out the linen closet, though. I fear I’ve made a horrible mess of it.”

Serena laughs, loudly, not even worried if she’ll wake Jason. It feels so good, so right, to be here. She didn’t lose everyone when Elinor died, when Adrienne died. She has this, this family. These two people under the same roof as her. Serena kisses Bernie, mouth open, tongue insistent. She slides above her, their bodies pressed together and Serena can’t fathom how she’s done without this for so long. Bernie’s hands are in her hair, Serena’s hands are at Bernie’s waist, and they just kiss and kiss and Serena feels like it could go on forever.

“I’m back,” she says when they finally part, still resting atop Bernie. “I’m back.”


End file.
